PostMortem Obligatory Notes
by gelfling
Summary: A dead hero's only remaining obligation is to stay dead.  That Sephiroth is incapable of doing so is a constant source of bitter amusement.  Post-games, how Sephiroth and Cloud survive in a future world that doesn't remember either of them.
1. PostMortem

**Post-Mortem Obligatory Notes**

Death is a low chemical trick played on everybody except sequoia trees.  
-JJ Furnas

A dead hero's only remaining obligation is to stay dead. That Sephiroth is apparently incapable of doing so is a constant source of bitter amusement, in an existence where so few constants remain.

The Lifestream flows on through the Planet, recirculating and recycling the dead and living. Thanks to the hefty protection of Jenova, the Other, Sephiroth is able to retain most of his memories and anger as the ages slide past and he and everything he ever knew is steadily changed and forgotten.

He does rise, occasionally, to destroy and shatter and maim, to leave his footprints in blood on a world that doesn't remember Shinra or SOLDIER, and welcomes him as fearfully as when he was thirteen and first deployed to Wutai. He is usually defeated, and sent back to the half-depths, to sit on death's doorstep until—

-until he receives new orders. Until he receives a new target.

Would Hojo be pleased to know that his creation never swerved from its function? Or would Hojo see it as inadequacy? The inability to evolve, to grow, now that Sephiroth is too old to learn and—he tells himself—too tired to try.

If nothing else, he approves of the Planet's new face, this barren land of rock and ice so primordial and glacial that the ice is green. There's very few cities now, all grouped near the equator, and they all fear him. Cloud lingers in one of them for the moment, since Cloud is as incapable of settling down as Sephiroth is at staying dead.

"Hey," Cloud mumbles to his sword, the wide blade hardly scratched despite its age. "You're early."

Cloud doesn't change either, for the most part; still slow, soft-spoken, and sixteen, though he's only a little younger than Sephiroth and almost older than anything else, except Valentine.

"Um," Cloud squints at the rising sun, a darker red than Sephiroth remembers, but that just may be pollution. Or possibly a lack of. "Thanks. For last time."

The words sound they'd been dragged out of Cloud's throat via his nostrils. Sephiroth remains eternally unimpressed.

"It wasn't for you."

He'd saved Cloud's life, Cloud's body, from human scientists only a little less mad than before. Sephiroth then spent the following week razing the country to ashes, until his hair and leathers reeked of burned meat and burning mako and he fell from grace due to over-extending himself, rather than waging war against the rest of the world.

"Yeah, well," Cloud rubs the back of his head, a shadow of someone else, "Whatever." He still refuses to look Sephiroth in the eyes until they're actively trying to kill each other.

Sephiroth will not to say more, because if Cloud is too stupid to understand then Sephiroth gains nothing by educating a fool. He will not speak to Valentine. The sun will go dark before Sephiroth will forget _that_ betrayal.

He doesn't forgive.

He raises his sword to his cheek, as if attacking Wutai, Genesis, or Zack. There's only Cloud now, though, shifting into his stance, leather gloves tightening on his own sword hilt.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Cloud mumbles for the one-millionth time. "Things change."

Sephiroth allows himself a brief, microscopic smile. "No. They don't."

Then he charges and Cloud swings and for a few minutes or hours he is _alive_.


	2. Chaldea

Standard Disclaimer Applies: No $$ made to speak of.

_So here we are again._

The smog and sulfur clouds burn the unprotected flesh and naked eyes as Gaia turns again to eternal summer, a constant collage of dust and rust and fire.

Fire has always been his element, as all elements submit to his will in time, but Sephiroth finds himself hating the arid, toxic landscape even more than he hates its few petty inhabitants. The humans only want to kill him, or revere him—which is worse—but at least they can't dye his hair orange and blond with dust and sand, or rip the water from his eyes and skin.

The noon day sun scalds the barren mountains and deserts with enough strength melt lead. The wildlife—and possibly current dominant species—are low-slung many-legged insects and reptiles, which don't crawl out until darkness has fallen and night freezes the little moisture in the air into a spider-like frost.

If this world supports forests, or even weeds, Sephiroth has yet to see them. The air isn't oxygenated enough to support his lungs, his body mass, and too often he's coughed up more blood than he can spare, burning with starvation and fever as the mako in his blood compensates for this new suffering.

Breathing on this new planet is like waiting out a siege, and he is running out of supplies, cunning, and stamina.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Sephiroth considers returning to civilized society, if only for a few moments.

"It's not all bad," the man tells him while chewing idly on a piece of dried centipede meat. "We do have slushees. There's this guy down there who does _amazing_ stuff with an ice bowl and some fruit—feels like you got slapped in the face by a freezer. Only fruity, and not too much slap."

Sephiroth pulls his coat tighter around himself while silently cursing the sandstorm that has him marooned with this moron. There is sand rubbing into his skin in awkward and inaccessible locations, such as his knees and armpits, and he will do nothing about it in the company he finds himself now.

"Being underground for too damn long gets on both our nerves though, so I can't really see us settling down there. Which isn't exactly a bad thing, because then we'd probably never run into you, not even by the shaved ice stand."

Sephiroth says nothing.

"The whole underground garden thing's pretty awesome too, a bit like Reno's basement hydroponic cannabis thing we tried to get going, until the electricity went and that fire started. Can't remember if you actually got mad about that one now or not. Huh."

Sephiroth repeats himself.

"The people aren't bad though, at least in Chaldea—it's amazing how helpful people can get when the planet's trying to kill them."

Sephiroth closes his eyes and exhales, coming dangerously close to wishing Angeal were alive.

The other man's canvas trembles inches from his head as they lay crouched in a rocky crevice while waiting for the early morning storm to pass. In a few more hours this location will become deadly as the day heats, and Sephiroth will need to find more enduring shelter.

"I mean, you'd expect it to be the opposite, right? I would, and I've seen it happen, but I guess sometimes it's nice. To see people pull together, I mean, not to be on the brink of extinction."

When Sephiroth dies—fully, completely dies—his race will be extinct, if for no other reason than he is the only one Hojo created that lasted more than a few days.

"Yanno, I'm actually a little proud of you right now."

Even with his eyes closed, he knows the other man is beaming at him; that half-hopeful, pitiful weak grin he would always receive for trying—and invariably botching horrendously—something new.

Sephiroth doesn't answer.

"Been well over ten minutes now, and you haven't tried to kill us once."

No. He wouldn't. Not as the other is now.

Cloud's face smiles and waggles his eyebrows at him as Sephiroth opens his eyes. As to where Cloud's mind is currently residing, Sephiroth would not care to guess. He holds the stare until the other man—as always, as forever—looks away first. The last of the centipede-jerky is consumed with more smacking of lips and noise than could ever be necessary.

There's nothing to say. Sephiroth would not speak when Zack lived, and there is no reason to change now for a ghost's memory.

Too many things left unsaid, so pointless and worthless and meaningless now. So very _dangerous_.

"Keep this up and you might actually start talking to other people. Before you start fighting, even."

He has no regrets, when it comes to ghosts. Regret serves no purpose, and there is simply no space for it in his life, even if it did.

"I've missed you, you know."

The wind hisses and growls from every direction above them. Sephiroth keeps his eyes trained on the boy's—Cloud's-shoulder.

It doesn't matter. Not in the long scheme of things.

"I'd better get going though—not real healthy for Spiky if I stay too long. See you around, man."

Sephiroth holds himself still as he listens to Cloud's breathing deepen, slow, even as his own heart races and chilly, sticky sweat breaks out on his skin.

"An' no killin' him while he's asleep, Seph," Cloud mumbles, soft and low, the Gongagan accent barely audible, and Sephiroth is again alone with a creature almost as inhuman and motley and piecemeal as he is.

He's too old to change.


	3. You & Me

As his memory is flawless, Sephiroth can honestly say he never laughed before going medically insane. He remembers...not quite smiling, in private, at the folly or ineptitude of others, but nothing so overt as laughing.

If laughter is truly good for the soul, then madness is easily one of the most health-conscious choices he has ever made, and possibly the only reason he hadnt committed suicide at the ripe age of thirty.

That said, he's having a hard time to keep from laughing out loud right now, and settles for quiet chuckles and the occasional snort.

Cloud just barely dodges a strike at his head, almost spears himself on the piker behind him, before getting shot-almost, almost, but contact was made-and Cloud is bleeding in his left thigh. He keeps trying to call out to Sephiroth; very unprofessional, a serious breech of etiquette, seeking a new opponent before one has finished off the first. Typical backwater peasant manners, manners the years have not managed to erase.

"Think of all the time you could have saved," Sephiroth murmurs, knowing Cloud can hear, even while fighting off the semi-enhanced mob. "The effort, the sweat. The people who _didnt_ have to die for your ego."

"Call them off! Seph-damn-!"

"Think of all the blood," Sephiroth has no intention of moving from his crumbling perch, shadowed by ruined office buildings and unnoticed by everyone but Cloud. "Every wasted drop."

He can't entirely fault Cloud for assuming his involvement; each of the cloned fighters attacking the blond wear a semblance of his face, with pale hair and green eyes. Imperfect and individual clones, with substandard skills and relentless stamina. They aren't particularly bright, and Sephiroth has easily seen four openings to murder the blond. Cloud _should_ be dead by now; if these were Sephiroth's clones, he would destroy them personally, and start again from scratch.

If they manage to kill Cloud-which they may, judging from the sheer number of near-misses and bleeding wounds-then obviously Sephiroth has been giving his archenemy far too much credit, and Cloud's death was long over-due.

A few seconds slow, giving the whirling, hacking morass a soft, surreal atmosphere as a blade slices into Clouds face.

The cut would've halved a normal fighters skull, would've taken off the left hemisphere of a SOLDIERs face. Because its _Cloud_, the eternal failure, capable only of achieving the impossible, the blade grazes his cheek. Some hair is lost.

The battleground glows briefly. Blood fountains and sprays in slow, slow motion, and body parts cartwheel.

Despite himself, Sephiroth is hard-pressed to keep the smirk off his face.

When he was...younger, though not actually _young_, he experimented briefly with limiting his skills, in handicapping himself, partly for the challenge, and partly in an attempt to conform.

To this day he does not know why Cloud holds himself back, why Cloud's so very terrified of his own strength. It may be a human dilemma, and if so, then of no importance.

When the attack is over-the slower, easier modification of the Omnislash-blood coats the left side of Clouds face and feet as he eases into his opening stance, waiting for Sephiroth to engage.

"Well?"

The eternal failure. Sephiroth refuses to let his disappointment show.

"Was your ego worth it? Your hurt pride?"

"What're you talking about?"

Sephiroths eyes narrow as he steps off from the broken ledge and lands on the cracked pavement with hardly a sound. Cloud tenses, predictably, as Sephiroth strolls slowly around the carnage, refusing to dirty his boots and avoiding arbitrary fingers and limbs. "Do you regret it? Opposing me?"

"Never", Cloud spits with confidence and easy anger, sword held at the ready. It takes far too long, but once roused, Cloud is a very efficient killing machine, ruthless and precise, a genuine pleasure to watch. "When are you gonna stop being a coward and sending your lackeys to fight me?"

Sephiroth deftly toes a clone on its stomach, pushes its shirt up with the sole of his boot. "Twelve. Eight," he nods at the body at Clouds right, the black tattoo gracing the remaining portion of the clones torso. "And I saw seventeen, somewhere. I didnt catch the numbers on the others, but it will give you something to do while waiting for a conclusion to arrive."

"Are they yours?"

"They can't speak," Sephiroth continues conversationally. Ignoring Cloud has never been particularly hard. "Can't think, can't work together. Engineered to no longer feel pain."

"Are they _yours_?"

Sephiroth turns away, blatantly giving his enemy his back, not that Cloud would know what do with the sudden advantage. Besides, one of the clone's face is fascinating. Sephiroth crouches down; he hadnt been sure, but he knows that mouth, those lips, so ridiculous looking on a man.

"Efficient weapons, but highly limited," Sephiroth concludes his professional evaluation, almost to himself, pretending the moment doesn't feel like a Shinra board meeting. "Not nearly flexible enough to become a challenge."

"Are they yours?"

Sephiroth doesn't respond, doesn't turn around; neither noise or ignorance appeals to him. Besides, Cloud would only become more belligerent and pushy if encouraged.

Even at the height of Sephiroth's popularity, SOLDIERs were always considered a bit monstrous. Now that the program-along with Shinra and Midgar-are long extinct, it's only reasonable that people be terrified of them. Even so, he isn't quite sure why the rulers of this current era are so fixed on killing Cloud, or if they intend to pursue Sephiroth as well.

He begins to stand; he can only tolerate Cloud for so long, and he has what he came for.

"They've got your face," Cloud mentions off-hand, right behind his spine and far too close.

He's never liked people close.

Substandard fighting had made Cloud complacent, forgetful of the fact that while he is slightly faster than Sephiroth, Sephiroth is still faster than anything else. Also, Cloud has always been easily surprised.

"Ah!"

The hilt of Clouds sword-held low, too low, how did this child _ever_ beat him?-goes into Cloud's stomach, while Sephiroth uses Cloud's other arm to tug him to the pavement and underneath Sephiroth. He does not quite wrench Clouds arm out of socket, but he will if Cloud makes a fuss.

"That is not my jaw, that is not my mouth," Sephiroth murmurs, while forcing Clouds own chin and jaw more intimately into the concrete. "Their hair is white, not silver, eyes green from overdosing and it is not my DNA in their cells. It is not me they attempt to replicate."

Cloud struggles beneath him, spine jerking under Sephiroths boot and his considerable weight. Clouds throat pushes against his fingers, and if Cloud is not careful Sephiroth his going to break his neck; it takes more effort not to.

"You wasted time fighting for traitors," Sephiroth repeats, barely audible over Clouds wheezing, "and now I am going to let them maim you. I am going to let them kill you, exactly how they killed Zack. Until you _learn_."

Clouds forehead met sharply with the pavement, once, twice, blood dripping from his lips, and then Sephiroth was gone, as quietly as hed arrived.

He could not always be indulging fools.

***  
Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.  
-William Hazlitt

***  
A/N: FF Net killed all my grammar. I...I don't know why. Very shaken, very sad.


End file.
